


A Compendium of Fereldan Folklore: and Other Myths and Tales

by TrouserFreeTuesday



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Marian Hawke Does Self-Inserts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrouserFreeTuesday/pseuds/TrouserFreeTuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What kind of stories, Varric?” She asked. “You’ve heard all the interesting bits, and anything exciting that’s happened in the past three weeks you’ve been there for.” She raised her hands helplessly.  “I’ve got nothing for you.”</p>
<p>Varric folded his hands under his chin, resting his elbow in a damp patch of ale on the table. It didn’t seem to bother him. “Then make something up.”</p>
<p>Hawke paused, then smiled. That’s what she was good at. She matched Varric’s pose and began, in the way so many of the old tales do: “Once upon a time.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Compendium of Fereldan Folklore: and Other Myths and Tales

Hawke never missed a chance to tell a story. Of course, she lacked Varric's gifts. The dwarf was in a league all his own, all sweeping character arcs and dramatic betrayals. Hawke was none of that. She was sugar and spice and everything nice when it came to her tales. Happy endings came so easily in stories, and Hawke liked to relish in it's fantasy. Varric liked the tragic bitter end. Nonetheless, Hawke still fancied herself a storyteller. In Lothering she'd picked up many folk tales, both from her family and travelers alike. Sometimes she would think she ought to have written them down, but that left out the "Marian flavoring". Marian liked to compare stories to food, if Varric's stories were a hearty meal, Hawke's were the warm desert. Stories and food were both filling, just in different ways. Mostly, Marian's stories were personal, and unimportant. The time Carver ate a spider, and cried (Carver had hated that one), or the time Bethany had fallen into the lake while wearing mother's new dress (Bethany really hated this one), or the story of how Hawke accidentally bought a horse with the last of her coin (both twins enjoyed this one). It was rare she had the time for fables. Sometimes, it felt like she had left those  behind in Fereldan. At the dinner table, over Malcolm ' s raucous laughter and Carver's "i' too old for this" huffs, or in the darkened house, in whispered voices long past their bedtime.

There simply wasn’t the time, most of the time, in Kirkwall. Between fighting bandits, and drinking, and a total lack of audience, Marian didn’t have much of a chance. Until one night at the Hanged Man. It was one of those cold, snowy nights where the chill went straight to the bone and the melted snow straight through your boots. This did little to dwindle the Hanged Man’s numbers, though. Bad weather seemed more likely to draw the Kirkwall citizens to the tavern. Hawke’s merry band, though, they were less likely. Fenris handled cold about as well as Kirkwall’s templars handled mages. That is to say, poorly. Isabella was _around_ , in the midst of some heist that Hawke didn’t want to hear about it. It would just bring more trouble, anyway, and generally speaking Hawke was in enough trouble with the city guard. Aveline was at work (what else was new?), Anders was, well, Anders was being Anders. It wasn’t the cold keeping him at bay, that was for sure, Fereldan stock could handle the cold (thought Marian Hawke, currently wearing three pairs of socks and two pairs of pants, and being decidedly bitter about the weather’s turn). Hawke made a mental note to check on him tomorrow, bring him some soup and just keep him company. It was all for his benefit, not in the slightest for hers, of course. Now, this all hinged on her remembering this in the morning. The ale had made the room pleasantly warm, and unpleasantly unsteady, and Hawke was fairly sure that she’d be spending the night at the Hanged Man (again. Maker, if Bethany were still at home she’d be in for a scolding the next morning). Varric was the only constant company, but that was hardly surprising. Varric quite literally lived in the Hanged Man, and he was quite at home in front of the fireplace on the main floor. Surrounded by the other regular patrons, Varric spoke of all things large and fanciful. The tavern gathered round, glasses of ale clasped tightly in both hands. Finally, Varric finished his story, in a soft serious voice that could force reverence out of anyone, and slumped down into his seat. He waved, vaguely, in Hawke’s direction. “Your turn, Hawke.”

Hawke snorted a laugh. “My turn? Surely you haven’t run out of stories to tell, dwarf?” She arched an eyebrow, looking Varric up and down.

“Out of stories? You wound me.” Varric placed his hands over his chest, feigning injury. “I just thought that maybe it was time to step out of the spotlight for a moment." She arched an eyebrow, looking Varric up and down. Maker, he looked drunk. He was swaying, only slightly, and he kept blinking as though he were desperately trying to refocus his vision. Under Hawke’s gaze, Varric started to shift uncomfortably, until he finally confessed: “I may be a bit to drunk to tell another.”

This got a laugh from the crowd..

Hawke was pretty drunk too. She didn’t dare rise from her seat, she could masterfully fake sobriety provided she would never have to stand up. “What kind of stories, Varric?” She asked. “You’ve heard all the interesting bits, and anything exciting that’s happened in the past three weeks you’ve been there for.” She raised her hands helplessly. They’d heard about the time Hawke accidentally attacked a bandit caravan, because she had accidentally shot a person instead of the tree he was aiming at (which, really, was all Isabella’s fault. It was risk you take when bet Hawke that she can’t hit that ‘tree that looks like a ragged old man, right in the crotch-height notch’), and the time Anders had accidentally locked himself out of his clinic and he and Hawke had needed to deliver a baby on the front steps. “I’ve got nothing for you.”

Varric folded his hands under his chin, resting his elbow in a damp patch of ale on the table. It didn’t seem to bother him. “Then make something up.”

Hawke paused, then smiled. That’s what she was good at. She matched Varric’s pose and began, in the way so many of the old tales do: “Once upon a time.”

 

\---

  


Many years ago, before Callanhad had united the clans and before the Free Marshes had been settled, there was a clan leader in Fereldan. This leader, Dugald the Fearless, and his wife Aileen wanted nothing more than a child. They prayed, sacrificed to the gods, and did all they could, but for years nothing happened. Wars were waged, blood was spilled, and time went on; still, no child was given to them. Until, one day, a miracle occurred: The gods had given them a baby girl. Dugald and Aileen were so elated that shortly after the babe’s birth, the leaders of all clans were invited to come to a feast in her honour, enemy or friend, all to share in their joy. 

As well, they invited twelve of the thirteen witches. This was before the circles had been established, after all, and no tribe was complete without a mage. The thirteenth was a bitter, hateful woman, who all were told to avoid. She lived in the wilds, where some said she kidnapped children and feasted upon them. So, not sadly, the Witch of the Wilds was left out of the festivities. Of course, being that she was of a choleric humour and possessed a certain dramatic flair, she opted to crash the party. Naturally she left it until a fitting dramatic moment. The twelve other witches bestowed great gifts upon the girl; first the gift of kindness, then the gift of beauty, and so on, until all but the twelfth witch had blessed the girl. This is when the witch made her grand entrance. The pleasant weather turned stormy in a flash, thunder booming like war drums over the glen. Like a shadow, the Witch of the Wilds stepped forward from the trees, a cape billowing out behind her. She gave a long, dramatic speech that everyone was too fear struck to properly hear, until she paused, striding over towards the newborn girl as if she were about the claim the infant as her own. This was, at least, the thought in the girls’ parents mind. The father stepped forward brandishing a sword, and the Witch struck him down effortlessly. She did not kill him, for the present to daughter would be punishment enough. Instead, he stumbled over, falling flat on the wet grass. Tree roots snaked up from the dirt, wrapping themselves around Dugald’s arms and pinning him to the ground. Aileen soon found branches wrapping themselves around her ankles, and from the screams of those around her, everyone was experiencing the same fate. 

“All it would have taken was an invitation,” the Witch said, peering at the child. The child stared up at her, tearlessly. The Witch, absently, admired this bravery. Or stupidity. It was still a newborn, and so it was a hard to tell. “But, nonetheless, I still brought a gift. Curtesy, after all, is a blessing.” 

She gave the other witches a cold look. None were powerful enough to fight her, or fight the plant-life currently binding their arms, so they glowered back in response. She wiggled her fingers over the child, a chilling blue light descending over her. For the first time, the child cried. 

“This child will have a charmed life,” the Witch declared, “Love, wealth, any and everything a girl can ask for. And you will all love this precious little child, more than you even love her now. Then, on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, she will prick her finger on a spinning needle,” the witch paused again for effect, surveying the terror in the crowds eyes with an amused sort of superiority, “and die.” 

There was a flash of smoke, and a flock of ravens rose up from the woods. When the smoke vanished, the Witch had gone. As the clamouring of the crowd began to die down, the last of the thirteen good witches stepped forward. “My gift has not yet been given, and though I lack the power to break the curse completely, I may be able to dampen it’s effects.” She, too, raised her hands over the child, and with a small wave a white light descended upon the child. “On her fifteenth birthday, this child will indeed prick her finger on a spinning wheel. However, instead of death she will fall into a deep sleep. And sleep she will, until a time comes when she can receive true love’s kiss.” 

Dugald frowned. “Can we be sure a time will come? If she is asleep, how will she find love? Most men do not fall in love with sleeping girls.” 

“Have faith, my Lord, true love can be found in the strangest of places.” And with that, the curse was lightened, but not broken. 

All precautions were taken to prevent this fate. Spinning wheels were burned, Dugald instead turning to trade to obtain their cloth. As she grew older they brought many a man to their settlement in the hopes their daughter would fall in love with one of them; Except, she didn’t. They were too tall, or too short, or they smelled like garlic, or any other litany of reasons that all summed up to one thing: she didn’t want any of them. They carried on just fine, for the daughter brought hope to the whole clan. She was kind, and beautiful. Her hair was dark as the night’s sky, eyes as green as an emerald, and by the age of four she’d received exactly seven marriage proposal from other clan leaders. Of course, at four, she rejected each of them. And she increasingly beautiful, and increasingly kind, though also increasingly sheltered. She was not allowed anywhere without her personal escort, a surface dwarf who was paid by her father to accompany her. He was fierce with a crossbow, if not intimidating in looks. (”Hey!” said Varric, eyebrows narrowing.) And until her fifteenth birthday, all was calm. And in this calmness, Dugald had found boldness. Surely curses did not last fifteen years, surely there were no spinning wheels for her to touch. There was no way for it to come to pass.

Thus, to celebrate the passing of the curse, Dugald began planning a huge feast, bigger than any of the clans had had in years. They made a clearing in the woods, then filled the clearing with tents of all colours and sizes. People came from all across the land. Most, in truth, not to celebrate the daughter’s survival, but for reasons more closely related to political alliances. This mattered little to Dugald and Aileen; a party was still a party, so long as their daughter was still alive. - The festivities lasted long into the night, and the Daughter spent much of it drinking and dancing with strangers. This was the most contact she had with outsiders in many years, and she had every intention of taking advantage of it. For she was safe, and for what felt like the very first time, she was allowed out of her parents sight. While the curse had not officially been broken, each tent had been examined, and there were no traces of spinning wheels or looms anywhere in the clearing, and she was in good company. Her trusty dwarf remained at her side for much of the night, and between the confidence and companionship the Daughter found herself growing bold. She flitted from tent to tent, taking in all the wonderful sights.

There were elven fire-eaters, honour duels to settle old tribe feuds, all sorts of enchanted goods, and a pair of enchanted talking frogs. So it went, and much of the night passed in a blur. She lost some coins in a bet over the winner of a duel, and soon lost her dwarf to the appeal of a good drink, and found herself the proud owner of an enchanted mirror (enchanted how, she couldn’t tell you. She was told it was best to wait until one was sober enough to try it). The night went on, and the Daughter neared the edge of the clearing. There, a lone tent stood. It was dark, the fabric the colour of night, and the Daughter briefly contemplated being afraid, but pushed the feeling aside. 

Here she was, surrounded by family and friends. No harm could come to here. Oh, how dangerous the illusion of security can be.

Upon entering the tent, the outside world appeared to grow dim. The Daughter found herself facing a greying woman, sitting in front of a loom. Though the wheel spun, no string was nearby. Instead the woman appeared to sew aimlessly. The daughter could have been suspicious, as she well should have been, but she had never seen a loom before. This new object was immensely fascinating. 

“Come in, girl,” the woman said. Her voice was harsh, rough around the edges like it had been sanded. In the dark light, her grin looked like a snarl. Undeterred, the Daughter bowed, hand over her heart. A clan greeting, and a symbol of respect.

The woman snorted. “Ah, manners. Another of your magic gifts?”

The Daughter blinked. “Forgive me, I meant no offence. Tell me, what is it that you use there? I’ve never seen it’s like before.” The daughter paused, and then asked a very foolish question. “Is it enchanted?” 

The woman’s grin widened. “Of course. It does seem everything is these days. Here, give my needle a touch and I’ll show you all it can do.” 

The Daughter knew she had made a mistake the moment she had pricked the needle. A heaviness rushed over her, and abruptly she saw the woman for who she was: The Witch of the Wilds. Of course, it was too late for that realization.

As the Daughter fell into a deep sleep, so did the rest of the camp. They remained frozen, like stuck in some uncanny sleep-walk, just as they were. Aileen and Dugald, asleep on their chairs, with the dwarf paused between them, mid-story. The fire-eaters froze, flamers hovering above them, and a blacksmith’s apprentice was about to take a blow for warping the metal. The blow never came, and it would not for many years. The witches magic had poisoned the ground, and the forest grew around the tribe, arching vines and ivy’s snaking around the tents until there was no sign of the clearing that had once been there. The people inside, the tribesmen and enchanters and sword-swallowers were all forgotten to the woods. There were whispers, of course, of a beautiful girl trapped in the Kokari Wilds, and the riches that would come to the person who saved her. None managed to make it through. Either the vines trapped them, like hands reaching from the earth and pinning them in place, or the wolves got them. Unlike the shrubbery, the wolves were not magic, simply hungry.

Until, some decades later, a mage was born. There was nothing particularly different about this mage; he was no more handsome or charming than the others. In fact, he was mostly unremarkable, except for his habit of running. In fact, he was spectacularly good at running away from near everything. From the Anderfels, from his duties, until he wound up in Fereldan, near the edge of a wild wood. A small town had been settled there, and the locals spoke of the old legend. A tribe, lost to the ivy and vines of a forest no one dared to enter. The mage chalked this up to simple folklore, it was nothing new, or unusual. Legends were everywhere. But at night, when the mage had begun to dream, a voice came to him. It was a soft voice, gentle and lilting, and the mage was instantly enamoured. The Fade was a tricky place, though, and the mage at first kept the voice at bay. For many nights he wandered the fade and ignored the voice that chattered in his ear like a person who had been denied company for too long and had lost the ability to properly interact with people. 

“Oh, how long your hair is? Is that truly the style these days?” 

“Oh, how blonde your hair is! Where are you from? Certainly not from these parts! I don’t think I’ve seen someone as fair as you before. How strange. North, perhaps? Why don’t you speak?” 

“Are you mute? Don’t be ashamed if you are, just…nod, or something. I’m sorry, was that a nod? I’m afraid I can’t tell.” 

“Do you think that frogs can understand? Because I met a pair once, a woman said they could talk but they never spoke to me, and I’m afraid I was dubious. But I’m becoming terribly worried that perhaps they do understand, and that they heard every word I said about how skeptical I was of their mental prowess. I think I was rather mean.” 

And this went on, and on, until finally, the mage turned round. Perhaps it was because of the hundred and some years spent alone in the Fade, but the daughter was struck by the man’s appearance. His nose, crooked from too many fights (many both instigated and lost by the mage), seemed to fit his face despite it’s awkwardness, and his hazel eyes seemed to sparkle with life. The daughter realized, of course, that this could be a trick of the fade. Some desire demon sent to seduce her. But then, she had been alone for around a century, and she thought something along the lines of “what’s the worst that can happen?”, and continued to talk to him. 

The man was having similar thoughts, almost identical in fact. Right up until the desire demon moment, because as a man very much alive, awake, and un-cursed, he had much to lose if he fell prey to one. “What do you want, demon?”

The daughter laughed, surprised. “You think me to be a demon? I was just thinking the same thing of you!” 

“I’m no demon.” 

There was a long pause, in which both considered each other. That sounded just like something a demon would say. But then, both sounded sincere. And then, desire demons were not known for their remarkable patience. Surely it would be easier to find another target, instead of following (or avoiding) someone in the fade for weeks. And after weighing the situation heavily, the man finally said: “If you are no demon, explain how you have come to me in the Fade each night? I have never met a mage powerful enough to accomplish such a thing.” 

Again, the daughter laughed. “Me, a mage? I should think not. Things may have been different if I had been born with such a gift.” 

Confused, the man thought to turn away, but instead inquired: “Different…how?” 

“Do you have anywhere to be?” The daughter asked. “I’m afraid this may take some time.” 

And so she went on, explaining her situation, and how it came to be. And the unnecessary details in between. She had been alone for a great deal of time, and she allowed herself the luxury of conversation. The Mage, for his part, enjoyed the conversation as well, and found himself sleeping quite a deal later than he usually would in order to have more time with her. Once her story was finished, and the way to break the curse revealed, the mage couldn’t help the fleeting thought: “What if I’m her true love?” And then, “Well, that’s ridiculous.” Regardless of the self-doubt and internal monologue, the mage decided it would be wrong to leave a maiden trapped in the woods, regardless of the whole true love business. 

While awake, he began to pry, asking the town about the local legends, and nothing he found was optimistic. 

“The woods? Well, certainly we’ve tried to explore it, but anyone who goes in search of this missing princess has yet to return. We’re not holding out hope. Bunch of nasty wolves out in those woods.” 

“Some say the trees ate them, but I’m mostly confident trees don’t eat people. Of course, I don’t reckon I want to find out if it’s true.” 

All stories held the same key note: Any who went in search of the daughter went missing. 

Undeterred, the man began to prepare for his journey. During the day, he researched and procured weapons and food (after so much time asleep, anyone would be hungry), and at night he spoke with the daughter. He actually found himself quite liking her, and this only served to increase his desire to free her.

  


  


  


The woods were a creature all their own, twisting and wild, and the Mage soon found himself lost. Still, he carried on, until he came upon a patch of thickets. Here, the trees seemed bent unnaturally, as if being pulled towards something. And, even more worryingly, as he cut through the branches, he began to find bodies. Skeletons of men who tried to brave the journey before and hadn’t made it. It was if the branches themselves had grown from the earth and trapped those men there. The Mage was careful to burn the ground behind him. No vines snatched this Mage, and he soon found himself passing the tattered remains of tents. The colours had been faded by the sun, but they had once been festival. As well, he passed goblets and treasures, and he took a few for good measure in case the whole damsel saving thing didn’t work out. Then he started to find bodies, as still as death but with a healthy complexion. 

He passed Dugald and Aileen, sitting on raised chairs with gilded backs, a dwarf leaning on the arm of the King’s chair. He passed the apprentice, anxiously awaiting his masters beating. The Mage took a moment to rearrange the scene, so the Smith would find his hand making harsh contact with an anvil should he ever awaken. And then he came across the a purple tent. This looked untouched by the world, and it radiated a strange feeling of magic. Something that settled uncomfortably in the pit of the Mage’s belly. Still, he continued forward and into the tent. Inside, his heart stopped. 

On the floor, sprawled out exactly where she had fallen so many years ago, lay the girl he’d dreamed of for so many nights. Next to her, an ancient spinning wheel seemingly untouched by time, covered in only a few cobwebs. The girl was even more beautiful than she was in the fade, but perhaps this was just because he was awake. He crouched down next to her, smoothing her dark hair away from her face. Gently, he kissed her. 

And then he waited. 

For a few moments, nothing happened. Just long enough for despair to begin snaking through the man, and minutes to begin to feel like hours. Like he was being frozen, just like the rest. But then she yawned, and began to stretch, and reality seemed to crash back into the world. From outside, sounds began to ring out. Talking, shouting, swearing, all sorts of clamour and clatter. This all became background noise as the daughter began to stretch, and opened her eyes. Slowly, she began to take in her surroundings, and she turned her gaze towards the Mage. A small smile grew on her face, and she reached out to touch his hand, running over the scars that marred his palms. 

“My hero,” she said.

And he kissed her again, and again.

In the future, Dugald and Aileen would richly reward him for the saving of their clan, and a life of great happiness awaited them both, but at the moment that was of little concern to the Mage and the Daughter. True love doesn’t happen everyday, after all, and there were more important things right in front of them. Namely, each other.

  


—— 

  


Varric blinked up at Hawke, expression furrowed. “I didn’t take you for such a romantic, Hawke.” He was giving her a strange, and curious look, but Marian shrugged it off.

“I neglected to mention the part where the clan can’t adjust to the future and finds themselves struggling to survive until they all slowly die off, in tragic and brutal fashions,” Marian replied. “I was rather hoping to keep the mood cheery.” 

“All the best stories are tragedies,” replied Varric, much like Varric always did. “But I appreciate your consideration for the patrons of this lovely establishment. I think it’s time to call this a night, however. I’m already not looking forward to the hangover.”

“I’d have to agree with you.” Marian rose unsteadily. Varric began to walk her out, the act taking far longer with the alcohol still in their systems.

“Tell me, Hawke,” Varric began as they neared the door, “This mage in your story. Was he…inspired by anyone in particular?” 

Marian thought for a moment. “No. Why do you ask?”

Varric looked as though he didn’t believe her. "Oh, no reason, just wondering if the illustrious Hawke had a specific muse?"

Marian snorted. "Keep me out of your - what did you and Isabella call it? - Friend-fiction. I feature in enough of your stories." 

Likely, Marian should have reflected a bit further on who exactly inspired this Mage from the Anderfels, as the original story was quite vague on the origins of the mage, but Marian was not in the business of thinking things through. So she merrily kept on with nary a thought, though in short time most of her friends would have many thoughts on the matter. Varric was just the beginning. Marian had many stories she wanted to tell, regardless of whether anyone wanted to hear them.


End file.
